


Every Good Boy (Does Fine)

by kitsune_kitana



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dubious Consent, High School, Humiliation, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape, Spanking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune_kitana/pseuds/kitsune_kitana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone at St. Jude’s Academy knows that Jensen is Principal Padalecki’s special boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Good Boy (Does Fine)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [blindfold_spn](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/) prompt: Principal!Jared/Scholarship Student!Jensen - Principal P wants to keep Jensen as a pet, so he trains him to obey.

Everyone at St. Jude’s Academy knows that Jensen is Principal Padalecki’s special boy.

He is devotedly studious and his work is meticulous; it’s no surprise that he’s been awarded one of the Academy’s few and coveted academic scholarships every year since the seventh grade. He is shy and little withdrawn. His eyes are always solemn behind the thin wire frame of his glasses.

“There is nothing more important than your education,” Principal Padalecki tells him as he gently pulls those glasses off Jensen’s face. Jensen blinks myopically, the room around him a blur until Mr. Padalecki raises his chin and they’re facing each other, the larger face and brown eyes coming into focus only inches away from his own. “St. Jude’s will take you anywhere you want to go. If you do this right, Jensen, the world will be your oyster.”

Jensen thinks this is a little cliché as he slides off the lap, down between Mr. Padalecki's legs and onto his knees. In this scene, he does not think he is ensign Pistol, using his sword to pry open the purses of his victims, and Shakespeare had certainly never earned his riches on his back.

***

In the library, near the back corner where the religion section merges into social sciences, there is a small, private carrel where Jensen sits and studies. Or, as with this time, he sits with a book open in front of him, eyes full of tears. He has an exam in twenty minutes, but Mr. Padalecki summoned Jensen to his office midway through math class and now he is sticky and sore, and he cannot ignore the awful fullness inside of him holding--holding Mr. Padalecki’s--

Jensen's chest feels so tight, like someone is gripping his lungs in a fist, but each muscle-tensed breath only makes him more aware of the hard rubber plug. He remembers his face burning as he felt soft kisses on his cheeks, large fingers spreading them open and pushing that unpleasant oozing back inside him, then gasping as something else was pushed in. He hasn't dared to touch it yet, to see what it is--how big it is.

If he lets go now Jensen thinks he will never stop crying, miss his test, and even worse, be sent back to Mr. Padalecki’s office. The other teachers are blissfully unaware of their arrangement, and they are so proud of the way Jensen has taken to the principal’s mentorship.

That boy is quiet, he’s heard them say, but he has so much potential. He’s so bright, so dedicated, and Jared has such a way of bringing out the best in his students.

Jensen can only bite his tongue and turn grimly back to his books.

***

Once, Jensen had tried to end this. He'd decided that he'd had enough, that it wasn’t worth the price he was paying anymore. When his test was returned, a red “F” circled in the corner, Jensen had set his jaw, staring pointedly at the blackboard in front of him, and shrugged when his teacher asked him to stay after class to talk. When the note came during last period calling him to the principal’s office, he was less sure.

Mr. Padalecki’s lips were a tight, unhappy line on his face.

“Close the door, Jensen.”

He’d shut the door and leaned against it, fingers tightening against the textbook in his hands to hide the tremble. Mr. Padalecki's own hands were laced together in front of him, deceptively casual on the desk.

“Approach.”

They were the most terrifying steps he’d ever taken, one foot in front of the other, the frightening weight of Mr. Padalecki’s gaze on him the entire time. He'd stopped a few feet in front of the desk.

“Do you know what the mission of this school is, Jensen?”

“No, sir.” Jensen could hear the tremulous tone in his voice.

Mr. Padalecki’s eyes narrowed and when he spoke, his voice was clipped. “St. Jude’s history is long and distinguished. We are devoted to our students, molding them into productive members of society. We seek out the gifted so that we can offer them a unique and invaluable education and teach them to appreciate what they have. I would have thought, of all people, you would understand the importance of that, Jensen.”

Mr. Padalecki came around the table and stood in front of him, and Jensen could see now that his hands were clenched into fists by his sides.

“When I see someone wasting their gifts, it makes me furious.”

When Mr. Padalecki started to roughly unbutton his shirt, jerking it down past his arms, Jensen breath hitched as he began to realize the potential of Mr. Padalecki’s size. His eyes were dark, his expression almost violent with anger, and the sheer mass of him standing over Jensen made him want to cringe away. Mr. Padalecki hadn't ever really hurt him, had he? But he'd also never made Mr. Padalecki so angry, and if he wanted, Jensen could never fight back--he wouldn't stand a chance. With this thought in mind, he felt the beginnings of panic fluttering in his chest, submitting meekly as Mr. Padalecki rid him of his undershirt, tossed his belt aside, and pushed his slacks and briefs down to his ankles.

“Step out.”

The clothes were kicked to the side and a hand on his back bent him over.

“Spread your legs and grab your ankles.”

This was different, more forceful than Mr. Padalecki had ever been, and Jensen wanted to run, wanted to buckle down to the floor and cry. He wanted to beg Mr. Padalecki that it would never happen again, that he’d never fail a test again if only Mr. Padalecki would stop and forgive him.

The first blow on his ass was unexpected and Jensen’s hands flew back, as if the mere act of covering could make this all stop.

A rough hand grabbed the back of his neck and shoved downwards. Mr. Padalecki’s voice sounded so tense, as if his teeth were gritted together. “I said, get your hands around your ankles.”

“I’m sorry--" He cried out as Mr. Padalecki landed another blow, continuing steadily, and the humiliation, the pain, the fear was overwhelming. Mr. Padalecki was grunting with the force of each stroke, and Jensen’s body rocked forward with every blow. When would Mr. Padalecki stop? Would he do something even worse? Jensen almost sobbed at that idea. Jensen’s breath was coming faster and faster, heat spreading across his skin, chest and ass aching, and the world was beginning to spin. His face was wet.

When the blows finally stopped, Jensen could hear the principal cursing, then fumbling at his belt and zipper. Hands pulled his cheeks apart--and that alone was excruciating, they burned so badly--and Jensen heard the sound of spitting. Fingers pushed briefly into him before he felt the blunt, questing nudge of Mr. Padalecki’s cock.

Jensen was numb. He couldn’t think of anything but to hold on, hold on to his ankles, don’t fall over, don’t make him angry, this will be over soon. Rhythmic whimpers escaped his lips at each thrust until Mr. Padalecki paused, moaning.

When he pulled out, Jensen could feel the wetness slide out of him too, oozing slowly down the back of his thigh. Mr. Padalecki came around and pulled his head up by the hair, his face closed and uncompromising. “Clean me off.”

Jensen felt something wither inside of him in that moment, taking the bigger man into his mouth, the disgusting, dusky, salty taste on his tongue.

“If you don’t want this anymore,” Mr. Padalecki said, softly, above him, “you can stop. But I will open that door and everyone will see you just like this, Jensen, just like you really are. Naked and filthy. The teachers will see you. The students will see you. What school will take you then, Jensen, knowing what you did here?”

Mr. Padalecki is facing the door and Jensen was suddenly terrified that someone would come in, that someone would witness this--witness him, spread and exposed and dirty and--

That dam of emotions inside him collapsed and Jensen fell to his knees in front of Mr. Padalecki, crying, clutching at his thighs. “Please don’t, please don’t show them,” Jensen sobbed. “I can’t do it, I can’t do this. Please don’t do this to me, Mr. Padalecki, please--"

A large hand had cupped his face, bringing his eyes up to meet the principal’s gaze. He'd trembled against that palm, trying to hold in the whimpers as Mr. Padalecki wiped his face clean. “I won’t--this time. I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

He remembers, humiliated, how thankful he’d been, kissing everything of Mr. Padalecki’s within reach: his hands, his stomach, his cock, anything belonging to this lone figure that stood between him and the world. “Thank you,” he’d whispered, “Please don’t tell. Thank you.”

***

“One day you’ll graduate from here,” Mr. Padalecki says to him. “You’ll go off to college and do amazing things. I can see it, Jensen.”

Jensen closes his eyes and forces his hips to still. Mr. Padalecki’s hand is excruciatingly slow between his legs, stroking and admiring and keeping Jensen on the edge for what feels like hours now. He can feel the cloth of Mr. Padalecki’s shirt against his bare back, the strength of the muscles shifting beneath him. A large, tanned hand moves underneath his knee, lifting his thigh against his chest, opening him up. His own uniform is crumpled somewhere on the floor.

“You already taste like success.” A tongue is squirming in his ear and Jensen has to fight not to pull away. The hand finally starts moving faster, firmer, and Jensen can see the shining white of his future against the black of his clenched closed eyelids.

Only two more years, he reminds himself. I’m going to make it. I’ve gone so far. I’m almost there. I can’t stop now.

His vindication sits wet and cold upon his chest.


End file.
